


Waking Up

by insignem



Category: As the World Turns
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, M/M, Mystery, Romance, injuries/medical descriptions, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insignem/pseuds/insignem
Summary: A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - he doesn't kill people. He saves them.Canon compliant fix-it fic - after all these years, Luke and Reid deserve a plausible happy ending (plausible by soap opera standards, that is).
Relationships: Reid Oliver/Luke Snyder
Comments: 23
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 2020  
> I started writing this fic before I knew of AO3, back in 2010*, when the show ended. I wrote the first four chapters between 2010-2014, but subsequently had sort of moved on with my life - it was hard to write for a defunct fandom, and other things had caught my interest. But Luke and Reid never left the back of my mind, and I wanted to give them the closure and happy ending that they deserve. 
> 
> I can't promise updates will be quick (I am also trying to rewatch to refresh my memory) but I intend to finish this story. I'm hoping to find an audience for it, hence posting it to AO3 now, but if you read it and know of anyone else who loved Luke and Reid, I would really appreciate if you shared it with them! Please, please comment to let me know what you think - it will really help with the process, and I would love to talk to more people who loved these two. And if you notice any inconsistencies with the plot, please don't hesitate to point them out. My goal is to make this as logical and canon-complaint as possible (well, soap opera logic, at least!). Much love, and thank you for reading.
> 
> *I was 16 when I started writing this, so the writing style might have changed a little over time.
> 
> 2013  
> [the author's note I posted when I originally posted this first chapter to the lure_atwt LJ and LROnline]:
> 
> It's actually kind of absurd that I'm posting this now - I came up with the idea for this fic three years ago, right around the time the show was ending. A lot has changed since then - I've started college (pre-med track, on my way to becoming a doctor like Reid), fallen in love with other characters, and haven't really been active in the LuRe fandom in a long time. But the tragedy of these two characters has always stuck with me, which is why I wanted to write this fic in the first place - I wanted to figure out some plausible (at least, by soap opera standards) way for them have the happy ending I so desperately wanted for them. In August/September of 2010, I was listening to the One Republic album Waking Up quite a bit - hence the title. A great deal of the songs on the album struck as fitting Luke and Reid's story, and gave me solace in my sadness over what happened. But one song in particular, "Good Life," gave me the idea for this fic. The premise is slightly crazy, but like I said, soap opera rules - and I promise it will all make sense in the end.
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this first part back in 2010/2011, and haven't worked on it much since. But I keep coming back to it in my head, and I just couldn't let it go. I spent too much time thinking up a canon-compliant, logical way for Luke and Reid to have their happy ending, and it's time for me to properly write that story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted August 2013.

**[one.]**

At 8:00 am on that London morning, Piccadilly Circus was already filled with busy commuters making their way to work. None spared so much as a glance for the figure huddled, apparently asleep, on the steps of the Shaftesbury fountain, save for a young woman sitting outdoors at a café across the way. As she skimmed her newspaper, her eyes flickered to the shape at the base of the memorial every so often.

To passersby, had they even bothered to notice, the mass curled under the fountain would have looked like just another of the pitiable homeless that often sought a night’s sleep in the public plaza. However, closer inspection of the form revealed several incongruities with this assumption. It was a man - young, clean-shaven, and, well, clean. No disagreeable scent would have met the senses of anyone sitting too close, and his clothes, though generic enough, were unsoiled and free of holes. Despite this apparent hygiene, though, the man was undeniably frail looking, and exceptionally pale. While he did not exactly appear homeless, he certainly did not look in full health either.

On the other side of the Circus, a hefty man dressed in black climbed out of a car, carrying a brief case in one strong hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He leaned against a doorway casually, sipping his drink, dark eyes scanning the busy concourse. His gaze fell upon the woman sitting at the café, and seemingly having found what he was looking for, the man settled himself comfortably to wait, half obscured in the doorway.

The morning stretched on and shops began to open, the famous video displays and signs flickering images to the thousands of commuters passing through. The woman at the café had long since finished her newspaper, and not a drop remained in the man in the doorway’s coffee cup. Still, they both remained, having barely moved from their places. Nothing changed until, a little past 10, the man on the steps began to stir.

There was very little noticeable change in the woman watching from the café, but she tensed slightly, becoming more alert as her gaze focused on the fountain. Her own watcher across the street noted this subtle shift in demeanor and straightened up a bit, waiting attentively for what would happen next.

Which, as it turned out, appeared to be very little. The woman merely continued to observe, and the man awaited an opportunity. He was not very concerned with what the woman was watching, and therefore had not taken note of the man by the fountain. The woman, on the other hand, was now gazing intently, her eyes trained on what was unfolding on the memorial’s steps.

*

It was the strangest feeling, really. Almost like swimming up from crushing depths, nearing the surface after too long underwater. Like emerging from a cocoon of smothering, endless blackness, into… light? Knowing? _Knowing._ He felt consciousness knocking, requesting permission to return fully into the waking world. Acquiescence was inevitable as the knob turned, the door swung open, and the man opened his eyes.

Then promptly shut them again, as light flooded his long dormant retinas and his brain screamed at the over-stimulation.

Wincing, his breaths coming in gasps, he slowly started to take stock of his surroundings. Awareness warred with disorientation as he registered that his cheek was pressed against cool stone and that there was a trickle of water very nearby, mixed with the louder but not quite as near bustle of city sounds. The physical connection of his body against a very real and solid surface helped to ground his untethered mind until he dared to attempt opening his eyes again.

Ever so slowly, he cracked his eyelids wider and wider, filtering the light in gradually until he could squint reasonably without pain. He frowned as he took in his surroundings, his brain processing the images that were being transferred to it until a semblance of recognition graced his consciousness.

So. He was lying at the base of some sort of fountain, in what appeared to be a public square, in a rather busy city, and he had absolutely no idea how he had gotten there or what he was doing in such a place. Lovely.

Deciding it would probably be best to change his current position, considering that the stone of the fountain must be utterly filthy, the man shuddered internally and gingerly attempted to push himself into a sitting position. By the time he had maneuvered himself upright, he was all but gasping from the exertion and shaking with the effort the simple act had required.

 _What the hell?_ He wondered, and anxiously began to take an inventory of his body. Working methodically, he slowly moved each body part until he was satisfied, and slumped, head throbbing, with his back against the fountain’s basin. While everything appeared to be functioning properly, he felt weak and shaky, as though his muscles had atrophied from long disuse.

He shook his head, perplexed, and frowned around at his surroundings again, trying to place himself. Gazing up at the fountain, he studied the statue of the winged archer adorning its top. _Anteros_ , he realized. The god of selfless and mature love. Though often mistaken for immature, cupidic brother Eros, he knew this particular statue depicted the more staid Greek god, and dawning realization set in as he realized precisely where he was. A scan of the plaza confirmed his suspicion – this was Piccadilly Circus, in the heart of London.

Despite the confirmation of his location, he still couldn’t figure out what could possibly be going on. He rubbed weakly at his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How had he gotten there? What was wrong with his body? _Had he been drugged?_

He struggled distractedly, trying to focus. He was missing something. A panicky feeling started to set in, and he took several deep breaths, attempting to think rationally. But he couldn’t get his mind to stay on his current predicament. It was flitting around his surroundings, hyperaware and taking in too many insignificant details...

A woman was getting up from her table at a café across the street. Opposite, a burly man was emerging from a shadowy doorway. _His head was spinning_. The woman was carrying a newspaper, the man a briefcase. _Why couldn’t he think?_

The woman was crossing the street, passing right by him. There was a taxi waiting on the other side of the fountain. She didn’t look at him, but his nerves prickled as if somehow she were intensely aware of him. _He didn’t understand._

Now the man was reaching for his briefcase. He pulled a dark, tubular object from it. . The woman was passing right in front of the fountain. _Something was wrong. Think!_

The large man had his gaze trained on the woman. He was raising his arm. She was precisely in front of the fountain. Watching this playing out, his brain finally clicked into gear and with a sudden, horrible clarity, he knew what he was seeing.

“No!” He shouted, his voice an anemic rasp. He retched on the word, his raw throat cracking. “No!” He tried again, but the cry of his weak voice went unnoticed. He struggled to get up, to do something, _why wasn’t anyone doing anything?_ But in a split second, it was all too late.

He barely registered an oddly muffled crack, and the woman in front of him crumpled, red blossoming across the front of her blouse. Suddenly, he was moving, some gut-wrenching instinct sending him stumbling down the steps towards the fallen woman. His long-unused muscles groaned in protest, but unable to spare them more than a fleeting thought, he managed to reach her as fast as he could.

“Call 911!” He shouted hoarsely to the gathering crowd, already forming a circle around the scene. _Shit, this is the UK,_ he realized, and called again, “An ambulance! Call an ambulance!” _Or something,_ he groaned, and quickly scanned the shooting victim. _Airway unobstructed,_ he noted, but her breathing was shallow and labored, her eyes closed. His fingers deftly probed the wound, and he tore a strip of her skirt to press against the bleeding hole.

At the pressure of his hands, the woman shuddered and gasped, her eyes opening just enough to lock onto his face. He stared at her, trying to think of something to say but unsure how to offer comfort, until he noticed that her lips were moving and she was trying to say something. He leaned closer, and her ragged whisper reached his ears.

“You’re safe now. Lancelot-” she paused, then forced out, “That is the key. I’m sorry.” Her body seemed to relax at having told him this, and her eyes fell shut against consciousness.

“Hurry!” he called desperately, realizing there was nothing more he could do as her breaths faded slower and slower. At least the dolts gaping from the crowd seemed to have their cell phones out to dial emergency services, he noted bitterly, as his fingers scrabbled for her pulse. Hard-to-locate and sluggish, it was clear to him that the woman was fading fast. He continued applying pressure and even as the woman’s heart stopped, he began chest compressions, knowing it was futile as blood sloshed out of the wound. Head bent he kept going, until the distant sirens grew louder and came to a stop.

Vaguely, he registered the emergency personnel approaching the woman’s body but still went on, until, as if out of a dream, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a kind, accented voice murmuring, “It’s all right, sir. You’ve done all you could. You can stop now.”

Numbly, he pulled back his hands, stained red with the woman’s blood. “Right,” he said heavily, then stumbled as he attempted to get up, body heaving with exertion.

“Easy there,” said the paramedic, catching him and leading him over to the open ambulance. He sat there, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, watching the police arrive as if through a fog, distantly observing as they cordoned off the scene and examined the body.

Lancelot? He wondered, perplexed, what the woman could possibly have meant. Inexplicably, she had seemed to know him. _You’re safe now._ He shook his head, unable to understand. _Lancelot, that is the key._ It had seemed important to her, to tell him this with her dying words. And so he held on to it, letting the word fill his thoughts. He would remember.

An officer approached him and he forced himself back to the present, giving a nod to the policeman’s query as to whether he could answer some questions for them.

“Alright then,” the officer began, flipping open his notebook. “We’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?”

He stared blankly at the policeman, his mind a blur as his thoughts spun, leaving the source of that earlier nagging feeling at the tip of his consciousness. “I-” He finally realized, looking up and meeting the police officer’s gaze.

“I don’t know.”

*

Across the street, in a doorway that happened to offer one of the few blind spots from surveillance in the area, a man holding a briefcase smirked. His target had been taken care of, no one had noticed him, and he was confident that the police would never be able to track him down – a job well done.

He strolled off, plagued only by the thought of the man by the fountain. His presence complicated things, but his assignment had been to take care of the woman. He had completed this task cleanly, though the man threw an irksome wrinkle into the carefully-planned operation.

He crossed the street, considering his options, and passed right by the scene just in time to hear the policeman’s question and the man’s response.

 _Well, that takes care of that_ , he thought, satisfied. As far as their client was aware, his organization had fulfilled their contract. The man was no longer their concern.

He continued walking, not giving the matter another thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted Feb 2014.

**[two.]**

The man woke up to the steady beep of monitors and a kindly face peering down at him, a face that suddenly crinkled into something like delight upon noticing that he had opened his eyes.

“Ahh, welcome back to the world of the waking, Patient X!” A voice came floating to his ears, a voice which seemed attached to the face, which in turn appeared to belong to a tall, older gentleman in a white lab coat standing next to his- hospital bed, he realized, as his disorientation cleared.

“Or should we call you, Mr. Miracle,” the man continued, as he cheerily noted information on the chart in his hands. “You’ve got to be the luckiest, unlucky chap that’s ever come through this hospital, my boy,” he told him apologetically, then asked, “Would you like anything? Some water? I’m Dr. Stillman, by the way. I’m the chief of psychiatry here at the London Royal Hospital, which is where you are presently.”

Still feeling groggy, he nodded, and attempted to sit up. “Whoa, easy there, just rest a bit,” Dr. Stillman told him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as a nurse came in bearing a tray with a cup of tea. The doctor helped him into a sitting position as he explained, “You’ve been asleep for about a day now; you were brought here after you collapsed at the crime scene… the last thing you told the police was that you didn’t know who you were; is this still true?”

He nodded, trying not to think too far. The doctor sighed and told him, “I was afraid that would be the case. Well, that’s where I come in! But first, let’s see if you can handle the cup of tea. If that works out, we’ll try some solid food.”

The doctor helped him bring the cup to his mouth and he took a tentative sip, the gentle warmth of the tea soothing over his throat and settling into his bones, which, he realized, were aching. He met the doctor’s careful gaze and opened his mouth to attempt to speak, offering the first words that popped into his head: “The woman, is she… she…” he trailed off, remembering, then tried again. “Did they get the…”

Dr. Stillman’s eyes were soft as he shook his head gently. “No, they have not found the shooter; I’m sorry to tell you. The police are investigating, and would like to speak with you when you are feeling up to it. It was very valiant of you, to act the way you did. Most would not have.”

He looked away, not sure how to respond, relieved when the doctor went on, “Well, I don’t want to overload you right now, given all that you’ve been through and that you’ve just woken up, but I’m sure you’re confused and want some answers.”

Well sure, answers would be lovely, he thought, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that the doctor would not be able to give him the answers he needed.

“Alright, well sit back and I’ll just talk. Stop me if you need to.”

He nodded and sipped more tea as the doctor began. “Well, after you passed out, the police brought you here in the ambulance and told us what had happened and what you had done – and also that you could not tell them who you were. The police tried, but found no identification on you. In your pockets you had a wallet with nothing personal – only a nondescript credit card that the police are currently checking.”

He paused, as if checking to see that the information had been processed and he could continue. “Right, so we don’t who you are; you don’t know who you are, which means it appears that we are looking at some kind of amnesia or fugue.”

Great, so I’m Patient X, the man on the bed thought, as Stillman went on, “I’ll let you rest more before I ask you some more questions/run more tests/attempt to give you some information. I realize that this is terribly disorienting for you, but rest assured we are doing everything we can to help you. Try to sleep now; let your mind try to heal itself.”

Patient X nodded and slumped back on the bed, emptiness swirling in his head.

*

Sometime later, he woke to a few nurses bustling around his ward as they adjusted his monitors and opened the shades, letting outside light into the room.

“Excuse me,” his voice rasped, and he cleared his throat to try again. “Excuse me, how long has it been?”

“Oh, sweetie, you’re awake,” said a rather plump brunette nurse, whose nametag, he saw, read Teri. “It’s been about another day. Let me fetch Dr. Stillman for you. Do you need anything? Feel up for some solid food?”

“I think so.” He felt weak, but not otherwise unhealthy – hopefully Stillman would be able to explain something of what was going on with him, both physically and mentally.

The nurse came back in with Dr. Stillman and helped him into a sitting position as she placed a tray of food in front of him. He started to eat as the psychiatrist pulled up a chair beside his bed, his jaw working stiffly as he chewed. It was decent enough as hospital food went – in fact, he found it almost comforting – but he realized what he really craved was a sandwich.

Stillman was kind enough to wait until he slowed down, he noticed, before he began. “So, I need to ask you some questions and talk to you about some things that may not be easy to hear,” he said. “You feeling up to it, son?”

When he nodded his assent, the doctor continued. “You have no knowledge of who you are or any memory of your past, is that correct?”

He nodded again and searched his mind thoroughly for the first time, allowing the full weight of its emptiness to sink in. It was almost like that feeling first thing in the morning, when you wake up in a strange place and for a moment have no idea what’s going on – except the disorientation was total, and persisted into wakefulness in a way he could not escape from.

“If I try to recall anything that may have happened to me before waking up by the steps of the fountain, there’s just a blank.” He sucked in a breath, taking in just how odd a feeling this was. “And yet, I do know that this is a hospital and just what those monitors are telling me and that this means my episodic memory is affected but likely not anything declarative or procedural, which is typical of retrograde amnesia. I just have no idea where I may have learned or used this information in the past.” He took comfort in uttering these facts that occurred to him as he talked, in grasping on to the pure knowledge that at least resided in his head, even if he could not recall its source.

Stillman was nodding, looking somewhat pleased as he responded, “Yes, precisely. Only your personal memories are missing, it appears. Clearly you are an educated man, then - you’ve taken my diagnosis right from my lips. Now I’m sure you’re aware that your sort of amnesia typically results from either physical head trauma or trauma of a psychological nature, and may resolve on its own, given time?”

The doctor noted his murmured agreement and went on, “Well, your accent suggests northeast America, which is something of a starting point. The police tell us that no one of your description has been reported missing in the UK, but they are contacting Interpol to see if there are any matches in the rest of the world. I assure you, we will do everything in our power to help you figure out who you are.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, grateful that he was apparently not going to be completely alone through this. Stillman smiled kindly at him in acknowledgement, but his face turned more grave as he said, “I’m afraid it’s time to move on to the… ah, more complicated bit.”

He carefully kept the apprehension off his face as he considered what the odd and serious news Stillman had to bestow upon him. “Well, when you came to us, unconscious, we naturally ran a series of tests and examinations to assess your health.” The doctor paused. “And our findings were, ah, a bit stunning.” The doctor looked at him as if to make sure he was keeping up, and he urged him with his eyes to go on.

“It appears as though you were involved in some sort of severe accident, one that caused damage to almost your entire body. From the extent of your injuries, you are lucky to be alive. The orthopedists judged, from the scans of your bones, that the severe breaks occurred about seven months ago as far as they could tell. Your body has healed well, almost miraculously so, but you are rather too thin and too ghastly pale to be considered healthy – our best professional opinion is that you likely spent months in a hospital bed, most probably in an induced coma, as your body recovered. Quite frankly, it’s astonishing.”

He let the doctor’s words sink in, trying to process the information. It certainly made sense, given how he felt – how his muscles had screamed in protest when he’d tried to move and the agony of overstimulation he’d felt when he’d first awoken. He grimaced, realizing that a physical inventory was going to be just as horrifying as his mental one – but asked anyway: “Has the extent of my injuries been catalogued? May I see my chart?”

Stillman nodded and handed it to him, cautioning, “It might not be easy for you to understand. But everything we were able to identify should be there.”

He skimmed the chart, looking over the extensive record of injuries and procedures that trailed down the page, the fractures and surgeries and internal damage. With a vaguely sick feeling, he set aside the chart and drew aside the neck of his hospital gown, peering at the surgical marks that tracked across his torso. The stitchwork was neat, at least, as though he were some sort of meticulously put together monster of Frankenstein. He swallowed hard and looked back up at Stillman, considering for the first time that perhaps he should be grateful that he couldn’t remember whatever it was that had happened to him.

The doctor cleared his throat. “So, as you can probably glean from this, you will be needing extensive physical therapy. Counseling, as well, so that we may try to help you access your memory again – if you’ll have me as your psychiatrist.” He indicated his assent with an appreciative incline of his head. “Good,” said Stillman. “Now, I should tell you that the credit card you were found with has been connected to some sort of untraceable offshore bank account. There is, ah, a considerable sum of money in it, for what we can only presume is your use – it is all very, very odd.”

He agreed with the doctor’s words fervently – this sort of thing only happened in movies, though he couldn’t specifically remember any that he’d seen. Who was he? Or rather, who had he _been_? He shook his head, perplexed, as Stillman seemed to put voice to his thoughts. “It’s as though-” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Well, it’s as though this was no accident. For you to show up as you did, in your condition, with no memory and your identity stripped from you… it is as though someone placed you there. Did this to you on purpose.” He shook his head, looking troubled, but his face slowly reconstituted into its more suitable warm expression as he added, “But let me reiterate: whatever it takes to help you figure this out, consider it done.”

The doctor’s smile was infectious, and he gave a small one of his own in response, overwhelmed by the thought of what possibly could have happened to him.

“Now, I suppose if you’re going to be staying with us, you can’t just be Patient X forever; we’ll have to give you a name until we discover yours.” He chuckled. “How does Jason sound? Ah, you wouldn’t necessarily be aware of this, I suppose, but Jason is the name of a famous amnesiac from literature and film… he turned out to be an assassin, but after all, for all we know, that could be you as well.”

Stillman’s tone was still lighthearted, but the doctor’s words connected with something inside him, and for the first time he felt he knew something about himself with absolute certainty. “No,” he said firmly. He looked down at his hands, now clean, but he could still see where the fallen woman’s blood had stained them.

“No. I don’t kill people. I save them.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted August 2014.

**[three.]**

In May, a grieving father in Dallas makes a phone call.

*

Nearly a year later, a patient by the name of Jason du Lac is officially admitted to the London Royal Hospital for a long-term stay in the psychiatric ward.

*

A few weeks before that, a wedding is held in Oakdale.

*

Luke Snyder wanted to like weddings. He really did. There was, however, a long and unfortunate history of weddings in Oakdale not ending well – and, quite personally, he'd had enough of them. This wasn't one of those weddings, he knew that, but that didn't make it any less hard to sit in the pews and watch Katie and Chris get married without Reid by his side. In the months since Reid's passing, the ache had faded some, but occasions like this brought it back to its full strength, a roaring pain that gnawed at his insides and left him empty from the loss. Reid should be sitting beside him, and Luke could just hear him – he'd be muttering snide remarks under his breath at the people of Oakdale gathered for the wedding, but anyone who looked closely would see the softness in his eyes, the tangible affection, as he looked at Katie. Luke's pain eased a bit at that image. Reid would be happy today. He would have to try to be, too.

The reception was hardly easier. Luke stayed quiet, subdued in the face of the revelry and the open bar. That was another challenge of weddings – and he had never been so tempted to drink as he had been since losing Reid. But there was always a voice in his head, reminding him to _take care of that kidney._ There were imagined fingers, tracing along his transplant scar. And so he forced down the urge, over and over again.

He focused instead on the people around him, the people here who had loved Reid too. Reid would've been proud of how how many words Jacob could say now, and of how quiet he'd stayed during the ceremony. He would be uncomfortable, but secretly pleased, as the father of the groom marched him around, introducing him as his new chief of staff and visionary behind Memorial's neuro wing. He would share a dance with the bride, and maybe even with Luke without too much grumbling.

But try as he might, it was difficult to force down the resentment that threatened to surface. As the toasts began, and Chris stood up to speak, his smug, smiling face was a stark reminder that this man's idiocy had cost Luke and Reid their own happiness. The man was stubborn and selfish, and hardly deserving of the heart that beat in his chest. But Katie loved him, so Luke smiled around the bitterness and applauded with everyone else as Chris toasted his new wife.

Chris' smug smile soon changed, however, into something far more somber. He raised his glass again. “Many of you knew Reid Oliver.” There was a murmur from the crowd, and Luke caught several glances thrown his way. He shifted in his seat, not sure he was ready to hear this. “He was my colleague. My competition. And a major pain in my ass.”

There were a few uneasy chuckles, but Luke grinned. Reid would have liked the honesty. “He's also the only reason I'm standing here today, alive and healthy and married to the woman I love. Reid – sorry, Tom – but Reid is the true best man today. To Reid Oliver,” he concluded, and raised his glass.

“To Reid,” Luke echoed along with the rest of the guests, and took a sip of his sparkling cider. His eyes were stinging.

Katie's speech began much the same, as she tearily toasted the love she'd found with Chris. But her tears started coming in earnest as she recalled Chris' words. “My husband said that Reid is the only reason he's standing here today, and that's true. He's also the only reason I'm standing here today. Reid was my best friend. He was there in my darkest time, when I'd lost Brad and was struggling with a newborn and thought I'd never fall in love again. But he helped me through, and as I watched him fall in love with Luke, he opened me up to the idea that I might love again. He got me to the place where I am today; without him I would still be lost. And I wouldn't have the man I love by my side. So thank you, Reid. Thank you for sharing your heart. You tried to pretend you didn't have one, but you gave it to all of us, in so many different ways. I only wish that you were here with us today.”

Luke's hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips. He blinked around his own tears. He should have expected this. Why hadn't he been prepared? Beside him, his dad placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He leaned into the contact, grateful for the anchoring point. Time to dry his tears – dinner was starting, and Reid would have chastised him for crying when there was free food to be had.

Luke excused himself as the meal drew to a close. The band was starting to warm up, and he had no interest in staying for the dancing. He made his way over to Katie and Chris before leaving, catching them just as they stood up from the table. “Congratulations, you two,” he offered, hugging each of them in turn. Katie held him close for a long moment. “Reid _is_ here with us today,” he murmured in her ear. He drew back, and her eyes were bright as she looked at him. “He loved you, Katie. He's right here,” he said, indicating her heart, then his own. He tapped Chris' last. “Take care of that, okay?”

Chris nodded firmly. “I will.”

*

Luke had to pull over on the drive home, as the tears blurred his vision too much to see properly. He couldn't help but remember the aftermath of the last wedding he'd been too. It hadn't actually happened, sure, but neither had something else – and he regretted that far, far more. Never having sex with Reid suddenly hurt a thousand times over. It was a pain that hit at the strangest times, but he'd give anything for the chance to hold Reid in his arms, vital and alive, just once. Just once to feel that body, those _hands_ , to see how that infuriating and irresistable snark played out in bed.

Just one of the many losses to mourn, but not one he could talk about with others. He laughed, just a little, but it was enough to break the force of his sobs. Once he was finally composed, he drove the rest of the way home – he only had to wipe away a few more tears as they leaked out.

When he arrived, there was a package waiting for him at the front door. It was addressed to Luke Snyder, but there was no information to identify the sender. Inside was a nondescript black box. Luke backed away slowly, racing through scenarios in his head. Bomb? Damian had enemies who wouldn't hesitate to target his son. It could be _from_ Damian, but he didn't recognize the handwriting on the address.

He called the police to report a suspicious package, just to be safe. He wanted them to check it out before he so much as touched it, but curiosity got the better of him and he made his way closer, inspecting it for any clue as to its nature. There was a small keypad, he realized, like a safe might have, though it had only the alphabet instead of numbers. And a screen, blinking at him, waiting for an eight-letter code.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted August 2014.

**[four.]**

_London, early September._

“Jason, I know that you're frustrated, but you understand why you can't be allowed back into the operating theatre?”

“Yeah, because those halfwits who call themselves surgeons are scared an amnesiac who can't remember his own name can do their own jobs better than they can.”

Stillman chuckled, but his voice was disapproving. “Not exactly. You know, it required a great deal of permissions to get you into the OT to observe surgery in the first place – after you repeatedly asked, I might add. And now you've gone and blown it by running your mouth off, offending the surgeons who so kindly allowed you to observe in the first place.”

“It's not my fault that the imbeciles can't tell a scalpel from a toothbrush. The hospital shouldn't be letting those people cut – they're butchers. I was just trying to keep them from killing their patients.”

Stillman sighed. “You know, if your scans had showed any damage to your frontal lobe, I'd hope that your delightful personality was merely the result of the brain injury. But nope, no head trauma. You were always a snarky bastard.”

Stillman's tone had changed, shifting entirely from what Jason liked to think of as his “psychiatrist voice” to the voice of the man he'd come to view as a friend over these past few months. It grew quieter as he asked, “I know you would prefer to be performing the surgeries yourself. But you understand that's impossible.”

Jason stared down at his hands. Surgeon's hands. “Well, yes,” he countered. “I'm not an idiot.”

He met Stillman's eyes – there was a kindness there that never failed to make him squirm. He was an ass. He was an ass who didn't even know who he was; he hardly deserved the kindness this man had shown him.

Stillman might have misinterpreted his discomfort though, because he went on, reassuring as ever. “Jason, I don't doubt that you were – _are_ – a surgeon. Your knowledge exceeds that of our most skilled neurosurgeons, and your physical therapists have reported that you have the steadiest hands they've ever seen, even after your accident.”

Jason's mouth quirked at the corner. _Accident._ The preferred euphemism for whatever it was that had shattered his body, his mind, and his life beyond repair.

Stillman was still talking. “But you have no degree, no background – until we can find out who you are, the only way for you to practice medicine as a physician would be to start your education over from the very beginning.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “'Until we find out...' let's face it, Doc, at this point I don't think that's going to happen. I've had months of therapy, the scans show no physical damage to my brain, and still the only things I know about myself are that I'm a surgeon, I like chess and sandwiches, and I'm a sarcastic asshole. It's hardly a compelling identity. The fact that no one's looking for me, or even reported me missing, should tell you something”

Stillman shook his head. “I assure you, Jason, the circumstances of your arrival here are far too suspicious to not suspect foul play of some sort. I don't think you can write yourself off as someone no one cared enough about to look for.”

Jason rolled his eyes again, but didn't protest. “You know,” Stillman began, thoughtfully, “whoever you are, you're clearly a great surgeon. It's a tragedy to both the people that care about you and your patients that this has happened to you. It's doubly a tragedy, given that the world of neurosurgery lost another one of its greats about a year ago. A young hotshot from America, Reid Oliver. Name ring any bells?”

Jason shrugged. “Nope. Not at all familiar. But hey, for all I know, maybe I'm him!”

Stillman laughed gently. “I don't think so. He died in a terrible accident – donated all of his organs, most notably his heart, to a fellow doctor. There was a whole write-up about it in one of the big journals.”

Jason pulled aside the neck of his shirt and glanced down at his chest. “Nope, not him. Plenty of scars, but none from a heart transplant.” He smirked. “Hey, maybe I do have a heart.”

Stillman chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. “Of course you do. Alright, enough talking. I'll see you tomorrow, same time?”

“Sounds good, Doc.” Jason got up from his chair and walked steadily out of the office. A few months ago, the walk back to his room had been impossible. Now, with the help of lots of physical therapy, he was only a little bit slow making his way back. The therapists thought he would be back to new soon enough – a miracle, they called it, making a full recovery from injuries like his.

If only months of psychotherapy had achieved the same effect.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted May 9, 2020! Thus begins my dive back in to Luke and Reid - between research, planning, and rewatching, I've spent a lot of time on this this past month. Case in point - I initially couldn't for the life of me remember who was Chief of Staff at Memorial after Bob's retirement, Reid's accident, and Chris's surgery. Apparently, it's John Dixon.

**[five.]**

_Oakdale, early September._

Luke had spent the summer throwing himself into Foundation work so thoroughly that by early September, he'd almost managed to forget that the anniversary of Reid's death was coming up. Almost. The date was there in the back of his mind, an awful, ever-present reminder he tried not to give much attention to. There was too much to do - the neuro wing was nearing completion, and he was working to put together its opening ceremony.

There were two hurdles still remaining. The first, they should have anticipated. The Board of Oakdale Memorial had chosen to take a, “If we build it, they will come,” strategy towards securing the flagship neurosurgeon for their new state-of-the-art facility, but it hadn't proven to be as successful as they'd hoped.

Privately, Luke wondered if the specter of Reid was too strong. Reid Oliver, the world-famous neurosurgeon, who'd designed the wing to his precise specifications. Reid Oliver, who'd become nothing short of a legend after donating his heart to save a fellow doctor. Reid Oliver, for whom the chair the chief surgeon would hold was named, thanks to Lucinda Walsh. Reid Oliver, whose name the new neuro wing bore. Reid Oliver, whose ashes formed the cornerstone of the building itself.

Reid Oliver, who Luke missed _so much_ he thought he'd crack open under the weight of it. It was a lot to expect anyone to live up to.

It had barely gotten easier, in the year that had gone by. Luke had thought he'd known grief, but this was so much worse; an ache that was always there if he poked at it, a gnawing loss that hurt too much to acknowledge. There were so many what-ifs, what-could-have-beens, and nothing could ease the sting of losing the life they might have had together. Luke was supposed to have spoken at the cornerstone laying ceremony for the new wing, which had doubled as a public memorial service for Reid. He'd started to speak, and promptly choked around the words, unable to get out the tribute Reid so dearly deserved. Katie had saved him, reading the speech he'd prepared, then her own. Luke had removed himself from the crowd and sobbed, wishing Reid was there to mock him for his excessive sentimentality.

Luke knew the official opening of the wing would be a similar scenario, full of tributes to Reid – Reid the surgeon, not Reid the person, but the two were of course entwined – and he wasn't ready to face the loss of Reid so publicly yet again.

As Luke was lost in these thoughts, the second hurdle to the opening of the new wing made itself known to him in the form of an email from a fellow board member: An exposé on Oakdale Memorial had been published, with publicity so negative that it could potentially derail the proceedings. A nasty reporter from Oakdale's most notorious gossip rag, who was always looking for the freshest scandal, had unearthed what she believed to be a cover-up involving a hospital employee, a hit and run, and a mysterious disappearance.

Despite the bad news, Luke was grateful for the distraction from his thoughts. Nothing helped shake him out of dwelling in sadness the way that taking action did. He made a quick phone call, then drove to the hospital.

*

Luke was already speaking as he strode into the Chief of Staff's office “John, what is this? Is there any truth to this?”

John Dixon sighed gravely. “Luke, the hospital did nothing wrong. We fully cooperated with the police. There's no scandal, just a lowlife desperate to make a story out of anything.”

“Cooperated with the police? There was an investigation? Why didn't I know about this? As a major donor and member of the board, I really should be kept informed of these things!”

“Luke,” John spoke, his voice gentler than usual, “this all happened around the time of the... accident.” There it was, that euphemism that could barely capture the toll the day had taken on Reid, on Oakdale, on Luke's life. “You were going through a terrible time. Bob was dealing with his son's transplant and his last month as Chief of Staff. We didn't want to bog you down with unnecessary stress.”

“Well, can you tell me about it now?”

John nodded. “On the day of the accident, when most of the hospital was preoccupied, a witness went to the police and claimed that she saw a woman in scrubs run over a man with her car – quite badly, according to her tale. By the time the police returned, there was no sign of the altercation, and no record of anyone with such injuries visiting the ER or any other medical establishment in the vicinity of Oakdale. We conducted an internal investigation, coupled with the police's own, and the only strange thing that turned up was that one of our employees – a young woman, who matched the witness' description – stopped showing up to work around the same time.”

Luke took this all in. John wasn't entirely wrong that he would have been far too preoccupied at the time to process any of this as it was happening. “The woman? Who was she?”

John shook his head. “That's the thing. When we looked into it, it was like she didn't exist. She went by the name Gretchen Taylor, but it wasn't her real name. The credentials that led to the hospital hiring her as a nurse were falsified. Her coworkers didn't know much about her personal life – the only thing she mentioned was a fiancé who had passed away, which she claimed was her reason for moving here. We couldn't turn up anything about her background or her family. It's all very odd.”

Gretchen? Wasn't that the timid nurse Reid had so terrorized? She'd been leading a secret life? This was all incredibly bizarre, and Luke suddenly was desperate to know more.

John, reading him all too well, laughed a little. “Luke, I can tell you're about to pounce on this the way you do all your projects. But I can assure you, the police did their due diligence. It's a dead end.”

“I'll try to take your word for it, John. Thanks for filling me in. What are we doing about this exposé?”

“We'll publish a statement, and leave it at that. Our lawyers looked into the matter thoroughly – her credentials were expertly forged; there's no reason we would have been able to tell they were fake. Her coworkers assured us that she was reasonably competent, and there's no record of any malpractice or a patient having a bad outcome due to her employment here. The hospital will be fine, Luke. The neuro wing will be fine.”

“Thanks, John, I appreciate it.” Luke shook his hand.

“Give your grandmother a call,” John said as he rose to leave. “She'd love to hear from you.”

Luke acknowledged this, but his mind was going a mile a minute. He had a different call to make.

*

Luke didn't enjoy taking advantage of the shadier channels his birth father's dealings had given him access to, but he was too curious to accept John's claim that the investigation had led to a dead end. Information was a valuable currency that Damian had known well how to trade in, and there were means of finding things out that the police couldn't pursue. There was a particular contact he knew he could trust, and so, after a stop at the police department to request the publicly available information on the investigation, he gave the contact a call.

Luke filled him in on the details, then faxed over the file. Satisfied that the contact would get back to him once he had any leads, Luke settled back down at his desk. His fingers played with the edge of a drawer he hadn't opened in months: all these mysteries had reminded him of another one – maybe it was time to examine that one too.

The black box was sitting in the drawer, exactly where it had been since the police had cleared it, with the keypad still blinking at him tantalizingly. The only thing he knew about it for certain was that it contained no explosive devices or traces of poison; otherwise, he had no clues as to its provenance or purpose. Luke ran his fingers over its edges, allowing himself to investigate it more thoroughly than he had in months. Unsurprisingly, his search didn't result in any additional insight. The object was as impenetrable as ever.

Frustrated, Luke punched at the keypad. L-U-K-E, he typed. Four more letters. R-E-I-D. He felt foolish as the box blinked red back at him. It was no use. The likelihood of guessing an eight-letter passcode was effectively zero. Whoever had sent this to him had clearly meant to torment him; what other explanation could there be?

Reid would probably be able to figure it out. He was too clever for his own good, most of the time, but Luke was certain he'd have been able to come up with _some_ way to take a crack at this thing. He gazed at the chess piece that rested on his desk, watching over him calmly. The skill of a chess master, the hands of surgeon, the brains of a genius – what he wouldn't give to have those here with him, to help him with this impossible task, or to commiserate over its futility. Mostly, he just wanted the man, whole and present. He wanted Reid.


	6. Chapter 6

**[six.]**

_London, September._

“Good morning, Detective Choi. Any news on the woman from the fountain?”

It was a question he'd asked many times in the more than four months since he'd been admitted to the London Royal Hospital. He'd talked to the police once he was able, given them all the information he could – which wasn't much - but the best they'd been able to do was obtain dark, low-quality surveillance footage of the shooting and the shooter – a man dressed in black, carrying a brief case, entering and disappearing from the scene so swiftly he may as well have been a ghost.

They couldn't identify the shooter, they couldn't identify the victim, and they certainly couldn't identify Jason himself.

Admittedly, Jason was low on their priority list. He was only vaguely connected to the ongoing criminal investigation into the Piccadilly shooting, and since he hadn't been a match for any active worldwide missing persons cases, they weren't investing many resources into pursuing the identity of a grumpy amnesiac.

Detective Choi, however, had taken an interest in his case. She was as intrigued as Stillman and Jason himself were by the tantalizingly odd circumstances that had led to his waking up in a public place - with no memory, but a shockingly stout bank account - and had continued to investigate.

In response to his question, Choi shook her head. “No, Jason. They still haven't identified the Piccadilly victim.”

He nodded, not surprised. “Then, to what do I owe the pleasure of our meeting?”

She rolled her eyes in response. Of all the people Jason had encountered in his new half-life, Choi handled his particular brand of snark better than most, with the possible exception of Stillman.

“The pleasure is almost certainly mine, as always. Think you've ever been to Buffalo, New York?”

“Buffalo?! That backwater? God, not if I could have helped it.”

Choi smirked. “The medical center there had a patient, a John Doe, who was admitted about a year ago. I couldn't get a detailed report, but injuries seem consistent with your history. Hit by a car, presumed homeless, had a benefactor who paid for his treatment. He was stabilized, operated on, and kept in a coma while his body recovered. Was transferred a few weeks before you turned up on the steps of that fountain.”

“Transferred? To where?”

“There's no record. But Jason, the timing matches. This history is compellingly similar. I think this is worth investigating.”

Jason thought so too, and the feeling that was bubbling up in him was almost entirely new. Was it hope? Excitement? He half-wanted to hug Choi in delight, but the idea of hugging another human was entirely foreign, and most likely germ-ridden. He settled for a smile and a handshake (also germ-ridden, but easier to mitigate).

“Thank you, Detective. What do I need to know?”

*

Jason had a meeting with Dr. Stillman in the afternoon, but his conversation with Detective Choi had left him too restless to read in his room while he waited. He had quickly learned that he wasn't the sort to crave the outdoors – the nurses chattering about how they couldn't wait to get outside into the sunshine during their breaks irritated him more than it inspired him to do the same – but today seemed like a good day to go for a walk. The thoughts jostling around his brain needed some space to breathe, and skies, not ceilings, would give them that opportunity.

His physical therapists had warned him against undertaking any excessive exertion yet, but he was allowed out and about within reason. As he exited the hospital, he turned out of habit, strolling along a quiet side street that took him to the bustling heart of Piccadilly Circus.

The Shaftesbury Fountain stood stolidly as always, winged Anteros surveying the scene from his lofty vantage point. If only stone could talk, Jason thought as he made his way to the steps. Maybe Anteros would have some insight into whatever madness had transpired here.

There was a small memorial at the base of the fountain, just a ribbon on a cross, which Jason occasionally found flowers by. Today, there weren't any, but the little chess piece perched at its base was still there. Jason had brought the knight on one of his earlier visits to the square. In his months of convalescence, he'd had plenty of time to read, and though a bulk of the reading had been medical texts and neurosurgery journals, he'd also made his way through quite a stack of Arthurian literature.

None of it had yielded many insights into the meaning of the woman's final words, seemingly meant just for him: _Lancelot. That is the key._

The key to _what?_ He desperately wished to know. She had known him, he was sure of it; sure that she'd had something to do with his awakening here on these steps.

It was a quirk of the Circus' surveillance, he'd learned, that the cameras were almost entirely blind to this side of the fountain steps. The officers who'd reviewed tapes of that night had seen nothing unusual save for a taxi that a woman had stumbled out of, dragging a man with his arm slung around her shoulder. They'd written it off as a drunken couple, having a little too much fun on a night out, but Jason was certain that the taxi had been carrying the woman who'd died, off to deposit him for his rebirth at the base of the fountain.

Choi had agreed, and had tracked down the cab driver, who could only vaguely recall the events when prompted. He knew he'd picked the couple up from a hotel (which one, he couldn't say), and had been impressed at the woman's ability to carry the man, who was so drunk he seemed to be unconscious. Jason, who'd weighed shockingly little upon his arrival to the hospital, figured he knew how she'd been able to support him – and he had a feeling it wasn't alcohol that had contributed to his stupor.

The information was tantalizing but ultimately unhelpful. They were no closer to learning Jason's identity, and the cabbie hadn't had anything that could help them identify the woman either. In puzzling over the case, Choi had put together a few working theories, the prevailing one being that the two of them had been on the run, and when the woman had gotten word that her pursuer was closing in, she'd decided to drop Jason in Piccadilly: a public place where he'd be found quickly, with close proximity to one of the best hospitals in London. She'd likely hoped the public nature of the Circus would offer her the same protection.

This hospital in Buffalo was the best lead they'd gotten yet, and after sitting around twiddling his thumbs for so long, Jason was eager to finally take a step forward. He’d long resigned himself to the fact that there wasn’t anyone out there looking for him, but if piecing together the scraps of his background allowed him to practice medicine again, then that was all the life he needed.

*

Stillman was delighted to hear of Choi’s findings, and immediately offered to help guide him through setting up his travel and meeting with the hospital staff. “What do you know of navigating air travel, Jason?” He asked kindly, and Jason knew the doctor wanted him to poke around in his memory, to try to dig out some scrap of personal experience.

He frowned, pondering. “It’s not unlike how I recall surgery,” he finally came up with. “How I can see hands working on brain, but they feel disembodied – as though they don’t belong to me. I can picture the process of going through security, of finding a gate in the terminal. I can even imagine what it’s like to be on a plane. But I have no specific memory associated with these experiences. I do have a strong revulsion to the idea of being in close proximity to so many people,” he concluded with a shudder.

Stillman laughed. “Well, do you think you can brave the filth of humanity to make it to Buffalo?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

The doctor’s expression grew more serious in response. “Yes, I should think you do. And depending on what you find there, you may want to plan on extending your trip – if you can pursue any leads that come up, well, perhaps a familiar location will be enough of an emotional trigger to jog your memory. ”

Jason appreciated Stillman’s optimism – he’d never admit it, but he might have shared a little of it himself – though he quickly tamped it down to say, “I can hardly go on a hospital tour of the United States until somewhere seems familiar; that could take years.”

“Well, consider Boston, at the very least. It’s the major city in the region from which the dialect experts suspect you most likely originated, and there are a great deal of fine medical establishments there.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jason conceded, and Stillman – who knew him all too well at this point – clearly sensed his uneasiness.

“We’ll be in touch, of course. You’ll have my personal phone number. Just make sure to note the time difference when you call.”

“Of course, Doc.” Jason paused, then added, “Thank you.”

Stillman inclined his head, then tapped his fingers excitedly. “Let’s look at some plane tickets, shall we?”

*

The night before Jason was set to depart for Buffalo, he was nearly too restless to sleep. His minimal belongings were packed – a few sets of clothes (black jeans and solid button-down shirts had made up his wardrobe since he’d graduated from hospital gowns), toiletries, a book, his phone – and there was nothing more to prepare. It had taken only a few days to set everything up, and the chief of trauma at the hospital was eager to meet with him.

Still, anxiety kept his heart rate high into the night. He’d been a man with no past for long enough now that there was some fear in the prospect of learning who he was. What if he’d been wrong – what if he wasn’t a surgeon? What if he learned he was a criminal, that he’d done terrible things?

Worse still, what if he learned nothing at all?

When sleep finally came, it was fragmented and unpleasant, filled with dreams of shadowy figures carrying guns, lurking around corners, waiting for him. At last, as morning neared, his dreams softened, and he imagined a cool hand on his forehead, a calm voice soothing his dread. In the dream, he opened his eyes, and a beautiful young man was gazing gently down at him, his head crowned with glowing golden hair. Peace filled him, but there was also a sudden tug of yearning from deep within, and he woke feeling the emptiness of a loss he couldn’t place.

The dream lingered with him as he rode to the airport; and he allowed himself a little leeway for sentimentality in the wake of his strange night. He hoped he could catch some sleep on the flight – and he hoped he would dream of the blond man again.

*

_Oakdale, September._

Luke woke on the morning of the anniversary desperately trying to cling to the haze of the dream he’d been having before waking. There were no details to grasp, but he knew that he’d dreamed of Reid, and those sorts of dreams were too precious to let go of.

One year. A year without Reid. They hadn’t even had a whole year together, and now Luke was facing an endless span of years without him.

It was hard to swallow even on the easier days, but today was not going to be one of those. Today was the date forever marred by a horrific disaster that had stolen Reid too soon, and Luke was fully prepared to grieve.

As he often did on the days when he missed Reid the most, Luke went to the Snyder Pond. The Illinois summer had lingered nicely into September, filling the day with warmth and sunshine that Luke desperately needed. It had left the water pleasantly warm as well, and Luke barely hesitated before diving in.

The water gave him peace that was hard to come by these days. It soothed him in its embrace, and there in the calm quiet, he felt closer to Reid than he could anywhere else.

He surfaced into the sunlight, and as he floated there, letting the rays shine gently on his face, he noted that it wasn’t only pond water dampening his cheeks. He let the tears come, mourning for the man he loved, letting his thoughts drift as he imagined what Reid would be like if he were here now.

He’d be chomping at the bit to get the new neuro wing up and running, Luke knew, eager to start cracking open brains and saving lives. Probably tormenting the residents of Oakdale in his particular way, ordering Memorial about with snark and unassailable logic, saving those glints of humanity for Katie and for Luke. Maybe they’d have an apartment together, where they’d spend every evening and every night together after long days of work. He’d wake every morning with Reid by his side, and they’d share coffee and a kiss before they headed to work for the day. The images, however illusory, helped ease the flow of tears - little pieces of Reid that brought him joy, even in his sorrow.

When he at last left the pond to dry off on the grassy shore, he hardly wanted to return to the real world of companies and commitments. A part of him lingered in the pond, an imagined Reid at his side, but responsibility won over and he pulled his phone out of his pack to check for urgent messages.

There was a voicemail from his Grimaldi contact. Luke stood up quickly, curious for news. He played the voicemail.

“Mr. Snyder, I’ve found some information on Gretchen Taylor. Tracked her to a fiancé by the name of Lance Taylor. He’s deceased, but I have contact information for his family in Boston. Call me back to go over the details.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and please please let me know if you do - I'd love to know where you think this is going, and any thoughts you might have! Much love; more to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Reid begins his travels. More notes at the end!

**[seven.]**

Jason’s flight to Buffalo from London was thankfully uneventful, but that didn’t stop him from learning something new about himself: apparently, he was _not_ a fan of enclosed spaces. The journey had been tolerable but unpleasant, and he was eager to exit the aircraft.   
  
It was strange to be in a new country. Despite his accent, London was the only place he knew; the idea of America was discomfitingly foreign. He had made a concession to Stillman’s optimism, however: he would fly back to London via Boston, and had left his departure date open-ended, in case he found reason to stay.   
  
Jason sent a text to Buffalo’s chief of trauma, letting her know he had landed, then went to join the taxi queue.   
  
There was a tall woman pacing outside the hospital entrance as Jason’s cab pulled up. He exited the vehicle and asked, “Dr. Vasek?”   
  
She spun around to face him. “Jason?” He nodded, detecting a certain sense of awe on her face as she took in his. They’d spoken over the phone to set up the meeting – Jason had even sent her an awkwardly-taken selfie of his face - and while she’d thought there was a possibility, she was pragmatic about the fact that she couldn’t be entirely confident that Jason was the same as their John Doe.   
  
Now, as they stared at each other, her face broke into a smile. “It is you,” she said, holding out her hand. Jason shook it firmly.  
  
She looked him up and down, still grinning. “It’s incredible to see you look so well. The therapists in London have done a fantastic job. How are you feeling after the flight? Can we head to my office? Our ICU chief is looking forward to meeting you as well.”   
  
“Sure.” He scratched awkwardly at the back of his head. “Can we… make a pit stop for some food?”   
  
Dr. Vasek laughed. “Of course! You must be starving. We’ll detour by the cafeteria.”   
  
As they picked up food, Jason filled her in on the past – and effectively only – four months of his life. To his relief, the doctor was pleasant enough to talk to: she asked incisive questions and gave a general impression of competency – not that he was surprised; an imbecile could hardly have saved his life as this woman surely had. Still, he’d learned that he had a far easier time with social interaction when he could respect the person with whom he was interacting, and Dr. Vasek had earned his.   
  
The ICU doc who met them at Dr. Vasek’s office was more of the same. An older man, he shook Jason’s hand firmly, and expressed his own delight at seeing Jason so well-recovered. Perhaps Jason’s initial disparagement of Buffalo had been uncalled for; these two medical professionals, at the very least, gave him a favorable impression.   
  
As they seated themselves, Dr. Vasek removed a file from her drawer and placed it on the desk. “This is a full record of your time as a patient here, under the name John Doe. You were admitted to our emergency department on September 7, 2010 in serious condition. To be honest, your trauma was so severe we didn’t think there was much we could do. But the woman who brought you in was adamant that we try, and so we did.”   
  
The woman who brought him in? She had to be the same woman from London, didn’t she? Jason wanted to ask for more information, but Vasek was still talking.  
  
“Your injuries were extensive. Multi-system trauma. It took a team of our best to stabilize you and even then, we weren’t sure whether you would make it. It was touch-and-go for several days, but signs started to improve. We were able to keep you comfortable in a medically-induced coma in the ICU. Over the next few months, once your body was strong enough, you had additional surgeries to address the less immediately life-threatening injuries. It’s all detailed in the file, though I’m guessing the dry medical information isn’t entirely what you’re after.”  
  
Jason nodded. “Can you describe to me the circumstances under which I arrived at the hospital?”   
  
Vasek’s brow creased with concern. “This is just one of the many odd parts of the tale.” Jason nodded, expecting as much. Vasek went on. “Our local dispatch received a direct call from a woman insisting that we send one of our Life Flight helicopters to a site outside Indianapolis.”   
  
_Indiana?_ Another hellish place he didn’t think he would have been caught dead in – but then, what did he know.   
  
“Highly unusual, as I’m sure you can understand. But the caller was adamant that you be brought to this hospital, and that she would pay in full for the flight cost and the extra distance. She flew here with you. When you arrived, ER staff tried to get information on your history from her, but she claimed she didn’t know you – that she’d witnessed a car run down a homeless man crossing the street and was so horrified she decided to do anything she could to help you.”  
  
Vasek shook her head at the story she was telling. “She said Buffalo was the best trauma center she knew of, which was why she’d insisted on getting you here. But things got even more bizarre. She – or someone – had clearly performed some advanced care on you before Life Flight arrived. The emergency staff on the helicopter said it seemed like it had been hours since your accident, and that the only reason you were still alive was that your heart rate had been slowed to an almost imperceptible rate. They couldn’t get the ECG to pick up a rhythm at all, at first, but could detect a very slow pulse manually. By the time you arrived here, it was coming back up to normal – for a trauma patient, at least – but it was peculiar enough that the ER sent a blood sample off for labs. They found a highly illegal drug in your system – a toxin, effectively – that slowed your systems down enough to keep you alive.”  
  
Jason’s short life had been punctuated with enough shocking news that he was hardly fazed. Vasek clearly expected more of a reaction, but while the news was bizarre, well, everything about his existence thus far was bizarre. This was just another piece in the patchwork puzzle of bizarre that he had to contend with. He merely nodded, and tried to figure out what to ask next.   
  
“Was that suspicious enough to bring about a police investigation? Were any steps taken to determine my identity?”   
  
The other doc, Dr. Hawkins, chimed in. “When we have unidentified patients in the ICU, the police run a fingerprint check, but yours didn’t turn up any matches. With no criminal record, they lose interest. Particularly since you didn’t match any active missing persons cases. We kept checking, over the months you were here, but there were no hits. Usually, patients that fit this profile are homeless and/or have mental health challenges.” He shook his head sadly. “As you can imagine, not the sorts the system is willing to devote many resources to. Since you were under sedation, we couldn’t assess your mental status, but it seemed reasonable to assume you fit in this category – particularly since the woman who brought you in claimed you were homeless.”   
  
Jason nodded. Similar to the situation with the cops in London, so not unexpected. “And the woman? What do you know about her?”   
  
Vasek and Hawkins shared a glance. “Not much,” Hawkins said, as Vasek nodded pensively. “She certainly had a vested interest in your survival, though she claimed no personal relationship. She set up a fund to pay for your medical bills, but never visited – I never met her, and I’m not even sure of her name.”  
  
Jason filled them in on the woman from the fountain in London, from his own recollection and the little that he knew from surveillance and the cab driver. Neither doctor were sure what the woman looked like, but they agreed that it seemed likely that she was the same as the woman in London. His mysterious benefactor - her motives uncertain, their relationship unknown. Had she known Jason in his previous life, or had she truly just come across him in need of help? Why would she have gone to such lengths to help him?   
  
“So, this begs the question,” Jason began, “how the hell did I end up in London?   
  
Hawkins winced a little. “You were here, in a coma, for nearly seven months – far longer than we would normally keep a patient sedated, but the trauma to your body and brain necessitated it. By April, we were ready to consider bringing you off sedation – your body was quite weak, but was healing well. We didn’t share this information – patient confidentiality, of course – but perhaps your benefactor found out, because around the same time, she insisted that you be transferred to a facility in the UK, or she would stop paying for your care here.”  
  
“And you just sent me off with an anonymous madwoman?” Jason heard the pitch of his voice rise with his incredulity.   
  
Vasek looked apologetic. “Believe me, Jason, we would have preferred for you to stay here. There are a great deal of staff at this hospital deeply invested in your survival and recovery, and would have been there every step of the way. But a patient like you costs the hospital a lot of money, and without the state involved, the administrators weren’t eager to take you on as a charity case. They deemed that the woman could only have your best interests at heart, and authorized the transfer.”  
  
Hawkins cut in. “There was another factor. One of the hospital’s leading research scientists, a biochemist, vouched for the woman personally. It eased any ethical qualms the admins had. The woman chartered a medical flight, and you were officially discharged – that was the last any of us heard of you.”  
  
“Until your call last week,” Vasek added. “It is truly incredible to see you alive and healthy. I’m only sorry we couldn’t have done more for you. I’m sorry we can’t tell you who you are.”  
  
Jason shook his head firmly. “Please, that’s ridiculous. I’m deeply in your debt, Doctors. Thank you for giving me this second chance at life.”  
  
He shook their hands, and promised to be in touch. “One last question,” he asked before he left. “What was the name of that biochemist?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised this would be plausible by *soap opera* logic, so please forgive the Hollywood medicine at play here. I know this chapter is a lot of talking/info-dump/exposition, but it had to happen at some point... and there's more of it to come. Thank you for reading; please let me know if you do!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In search of answers, Jason pays a visit to a certain biochemist. Will what he learns be enough?

**[eight.]**

Dr. Elena Garcia was in her lab when Jason showed up, entirely unannounced. He knocked and stood uncomfortably in the doorway as the scientist looked up from her work, frowning in confusion. Her brow uncreased as she took in his appearance, smoothing into something more like shock.

“Can it be?” she asked, hurrying over. “You are our John Doe?”

“I go by Jason, now,” he said, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “Jason du Lac.”

“du Lac?” She raised an eyebrow. “How very Arthurian.”

“Yeah, it’s-”

“A long story?” She asked, and finally smiled. “I have time.”

*

Jason was very, very tired of talking by the time he finished recounting his history to Dr. Garcia. He hadn’t really had to explain his convoluted circumstances in full like this before, and now that he’d done it several times in a single day, he was exhausted.

For her part, Dr. Garcia was an excellent listener, though she too appeared exhausted – and deeply sad – by the time he finished.

“I am almost certain that your woman at the fountain was my former student,” she told him, wiping the sleeve of her lab coat across her glistening eyes. Uncomfortable, he shifted on his stool. He wasn’t used to people crying in front of him. “I am very sorry to hear of her passing.”

He nodded, then waited a beat, hoping it was an appropriate length of time to pause. “So, you know who she was?” he asked awkwardly.

Garcia laughed, somewhat bitterly. “I knew what she called herself. I think I know what kind of person she was. But who she truly was? I am not certain.”

Jason waited again, hoping she would go on. The woman appeared to gather herself, then finally continued. “I knew her as Amanda Jensen, but I don’t think that was the name she was given at birth. She was studying for her biochemistry PhD at my previous university, where she was the most promising doctoral student I had ever worked with. I was her advisor for four years before- well, before everything imploded."

“Imploded?” Jason asked. The name Amanda Jensen hadn’t jogged any recognition, but neither had anything else in the past four months. He needed to learn more.

“Amanda was very secretive. I didn’t know where she grew up, or anything about her family. Only that she had cut ties with them when she started undergrad. But she did talk about her fiancé – he was a surgical resident at the same hospital, and she was head over heels for him. But in April – this was almost a year and half ago - tragedy struck. Her fiancé was killed. Officially, it was a home invasion turned deadly, but I think there was more to it than that. Amanda, understandably, disappeared. I tried to reach out, but I didn’t hear from her for weeks. Then, in May, I got a strange message from her. She told me my life and research were in danger and that I needed to leave Boston immediately. I was hesitant. But she begged me, and there was an opportunity and funding in Buffalo. So I came here.”

Jason nodded slowly. Choi thought the woman had been on the run – this all added up, so far. “Did she explain why?”

Garcia shook her head. “She told me it wasn’t safe to explain. She disappeared for months - I called her, urging her to continue her research, but heard nothing. Then she called me out of the blue, just before she turned up here with you, and said she needed access to my lab. She wouldn’t answer any questions, or tell me what she was working on. She only told me it wasn’t safe for me to know anything, and that she was sorry for putting me at risk by coming here.”

“So did you give her access?”

“I did. I think she was continuing our research, but- Jason, I am sorry to tell you this, but we were working on a drug that would induce selective amnesia by targeting memory retrieval in the brain.”

Involuntarily, Jason’s jaw dropped. Of all the things that he’d learned thus far today, this was the most startling. Neither he nor Dr. Stillman had given much consideration to the possibility that his amnesia could have been caused by anything other than physical or psychological trauma. A pharmacological origin could explain why thus far, nothing had triggered any personal recollection. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to reverse it.

Dr. Garcia sighed gravely. “Our goal was to help patients with severe PTSD and other memory-related trauma. If we could target the specific memories and erase or mitigate them, we might be able to improve those patients’ quality of life.”

Jason ran through possibilities in his head. “Does the drug induce neuron death or signal disruption? Or does it target specific areas of the brain? The hippocampus, or the amygdala...” He trailed off as he pictured the brain, all its beautiful whorls and structures, that tangled mass of gray spaghetti that made human beings what they were. Or in his case, took that away.

Garcia smiled at him sadly. “You know the brain, then.”

He nodded. “The only thing I’m absolutely sure of is that I was– am a neurosurgeon. I just can’t prove it to anybody without an identity.”

“I’m sorry, Jason. If Amanda went rogue – we had not even started human trials; it would have been completely unethical – but if she did administer the drug to you, there is not much that I can do. She destroyed her work before she left, and your amnesia is far more thorough than what would be produced by the drug I’m working on. I am not sure how she could have done it – but I do not doubt that she was brilliant enough to have accomplished it.”

His hopes, teetering on the verge of the summit they had torturously climbed over the past few days, lurched precipitously close to the edge. He swallowed hard.

She must have seen the anguish he was doing such a poor job of hiding. “There’s some hope, though. Our drug was not meant to erase the memories entirely, only to block their retrieval. Our aim was to do so with a scalpel, so to speak, not a blunt instrument as she seems to have used, but it is likely that her work built on our research together. Your memories, your past – if your amnesia was caused by Amanda’s work, they are likely still there. You are only blocked from accessing them.”

His heart leapt, hope finding solid footing again. His fingers flexed and curled, his muscles, at least, remembering the feel of a scalpel in hand. “What’s the mechanism? Is there any way around the block?”

“Our research identified a specific neuron pathway involved in episodic memory retrieval. The goal of the drug was to disrupt transmission along the pathway by sending an enzyme to bind to the receptor site. To get around the block, we would need to administer a second enzyme that could bind to the first and catalyze its breakdown, thus freeing up the receptor again.”

It all sounded logical to Jason. “And there’s no chance that the enzyme could break down over time on its own?”

Garcia frowned. “It’s possible, though I cannot know for certain without knowing the exact structure of the enzyme she used, and that research is lost. I could spend my entire career trying to reproduce her drug and create an antidote, but I am not sure that you would want to be the guinea pig for that kind of testing. I am truly sorry, Jason. I would help you if I could.”

His hopes plummeted. It was tantalizing and torturous, to be so close to an explanation – to a solution that could give him his memory back – yet to fall short like this. He thought back, as he often did, to that last clue the dying Amanda had given him. “Does the term Lancelot mean anything to you?” he asked, recounting her final words.

“So that is why you are Jason du Lac?” Garcia asked, a faint smile appearing. Jason nodded his affirmation. “Amanda was fond of Arthurian legend; she liked to name her samples after its characters. I remember seeing vials in her cabinet labeled ‘Lancelot.’ Perhaps it is how she named the drug she gave you. But I do not think that will help us much.”

He groaned, frustrated. But she had said it was the key! There had to be a way he could use it to unlock his memories. She had helped him, but why? He’d found his way here, and yet the woman from the fountain still remained inscrutable to him.

“Dr. Garcia, do you know why she would have done this? All of this?”

The doctor’s expression grew sorrowful again. “I told you that I do not know who Amanda truly was, but I did know what kind of person she was. And I do believe that she was a good person, trying to escape from bad things in her past. She wanted you to live. She funded your care, and she fought for you to survive. She told me, when I asked why she was so invested in helping you, that you reminded her of her fiancé, and she wanted you to have a chance to live where he could not. I believe she would only have caused your amnesia if she truly believed it would help you to survive.”

She paused, drawing in a deep, shuddery breath. Jason had heard the shakiness in her voice, saw her eyes start to glisten with tears once again. He gritted his teeth and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. She inclined her head gratefully, drew in another breath, then continued.

“Last April, she came here frantic. I tried to stop her, but she destroyed her notes and her samples. It’s possible she had copies or backups elsewhere, but those are gone with her. She told me her past had caught up to her, and that she needed to leave immediately. She promised I would be safe, and asked me to vouch for her to get you discharged into her care – she begged me to do this one last thing for her, to help you. I did. She was willing to risk her research, her credibility, possibly her life to help you - I am certain that she had your best interests at heart.”

Her voice had grown faster, her words coming quick and fierce. “I do not know where she went or what happened after that. I never saw her again. I am sorry I cannot tell you any more. I do not know where she was in the months before she reappeared here. She would not tell me anything about what happened to you, or where you came from, or who you were. But you were important to her, and I believe that she died to save you.”

The weight of it sunk into Jason more fully than it had yet. This woman, this Amanda Jensen, or whatever her real name had been – had given her life to give him a chance at survival. He owed it to her to make something of it, however he could.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Dr. Garcia. Thank you for all of your help,” he offered, injecting the full heft of his gratitude into his words. He held out his hand.

She shook his firmly. “If you discover anything more, please keep in touch.”

“You have my word.”

He hesitated for a moment, remembering the end of his meeting with Drs. Vasek and Hawkins just an hour before. Both conversations had filled in tremendous gaps in his inexplicable history, but it wasn’t nearly enough, and there were still too many questions he had no answers for. As it stood, he was no closer to learning his identity – no closer to being able to practice medicine again – than he’d been before leaving London. He might as well keep following the meager trail of breadcrumbs to see where it led. “Amanda’s fiancé- what was his name?”

Garcia’s brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed. “It was Lance. Lance Taylor. Lancelot! I cannot believe I never made that connection.”

“I’m not… I’m not him, am I?” There were several reasons why Jason was confident he couldn’t have been Amanda Jensen’s fiancé – not the least of which was that the man was dead – but it didn’t hurt to check.

“I am afraid not,” Garcia told him, shaking her head. “I met him a few times; he looked nothing like you. But I am not surprised that you reminded Amanda of him. I can tell that you are very smart, and very determined. I can tell that you are a good man, Jason du Lac, and I think that you will find your way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biochemists/neuroscientists/etc please don’t kill me! This science here is based on my simplistic knowledge and research; I'm aiming for it to be at least vaguely plausible - but like I said, by soap opera rules and thus soap opera medicine!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boston

**[nine.]**

Luke arrived in Boston the day before his scheduled meeting with the Taylor family. His initial phone call to the parents of Gretchen’s fiancé had been met with rather brusque dismissal, but he wasn’t deterred. He’d called a second time, and though he’d been sent straight to voicemail, he’d turned on his full Luke Snyder charm to leave a message assuring them he wasn’t a journalist and that he only wished to speak to them about honoring their son’s memory.

It must have worked, because while they hadn’t called him back, they also hadn’t hung up when he called a third time, and had begrudgingly agreed to a meeting.

The whole thing had reminded Luke just a little bit of how he and Reid had come to know each other, how his badgering and persistence had eventually overcome the man’s initial resistance. He knew Reid would be making fun of him if he were here, but would secretly be proud. It was a pleasant thought to drift off to, and Luke slept soundly that night in his hotel in Boston, eager to meet with Joe and Linda Taylor in the morning.

*

It was too late to call Stillman by the time he landed in Boston – too late to do much of anything – but Jason checked into a hotel and promptly headed to the computer lounge. A search for “Lance Taylor” yielded several news articles.

“Promising Young Doctor Killed in Deadly Home Invasion,” proclaimed the _Boston Globe_. It had been published in April 2010. Jason selected it and began to read. There was only a brief mention of a fiancé, and not by name. She’d told police that she’d been home alone when a burglar entered their home. When Lance had returned, coming back from a late shift at the hospital, the robber had panicked and shot him, then fled. The rest of the article featured quotes from his parents, who apparently lived in Cambridge.

Another search secured him their phone number. He was eager to call in the morning. _Lancelot – that is the key._

*

Luke arrived at the quaint Cambridge home precisely at the appointed time, bearing a tray of coffee from the café he’d passed on his way here. He balanced it carefully as he shook Joe and Linda’s hands, then offered them drinks as they sat down in the living room together.

Joe was a tall, thin man with very little hair and a gray mustache that hung over a pinched frown. Linda was tiny, brunette, and bore an even less welcoming expression than her husband. Luke glanced around the room, his gaze settling on a framed portrait of a young man. Though he could see the facial resemblance to both his parents, there was something warmer in the man’s eyes, a depth that, oddly enough, reminded him of Reid.

Or maybe he just wanted to see a connection to Reid, here in the city he was from. “Is this your son?” he asked, smiling gently, hoping to soften the Taylors’ countenances.

“Yes, that’s Lance,” Linda said tightly. “Mr. Snyder, you’ll have to explain to us why you’re here. You said your foundation is interested in honoring our son’s memory? What’s this about?”

Just then, the phone rang from the kitchen. Linda jumped up to get it, but Joe waved her to sit back down. “Let the machine get it,” he said, sounding irritated. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message or call back.”

*

The phone rang and rang, but no one picked up at the other end. Jason tried to plan what he would say to the answering machine, but didn’t get the opportunity – apparently, the mailbox was full.

He’d have to call back later, then. In the meantime, he had lots to tell Stillman – might as well take this time to fill him in.

*

Luke spoke gently, detailing the work of his foundation and the new wing that he was funding in honor of another young surgeon whose life was cut tragically short. As he spoke of Reid – his brilliance, the patients he would have saved, his quirks – Mr. Taylor, at least, grew less rigid.

“Lance would have been brilliant too,” he murmured, glancing towards the photograph. “Top of his residency class. He wasn’t always easy to get along with – Linda and I always wished he’d had more friends, more of a life outside of his studies and his work – but he had more dedication in his little finger than most have in their whole bodies. Medicine was his calling.”

“Until he met that _woman_ ,” Linda hissed, and Luke could tell from her tone that ‘woman’ would preferably have been a slur.

“I’m sorry,” he said politely, deciding that playing dumb was his best course of action. “I hate to pry. But the articles I read about Lance did mention a fiancé. Was she a nurse at the hospital?”

Linda scoffed. Joe shifted uncomfortably at his wife’s ire, but answered. “She was a PhD student there, actually. Biochemistry.”

Luke stifled a small smile, remembering Reid’s frustration at Gretchen’s incompetence. If she hadn’t actually been a nurse, well, they were lucky her mistakes hadn’t been worse. “What’s her name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Amanda Jensen,” Joe told him. Linda shook her head in anger at the mention of the name, but Luke pressed on.

“Would you be able to put me in touch with her?” He asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “It would be helpful to talk to more of Lance’s loved ones as we work on funding a scholarship in his name.”

There was silence for a moment. Joe looked uncomfortable, but started to answer. “We don’t- we don’t have any contact information, I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Luke said awkwardly. “Well, is she still in Boston? Can you point me in the right direction?”

Linda leapt off the couch and hissed, “ _Amanda_ is not in Boston anymore. Amanda fled town the moment the police finished questioning her. She didn’t even stay for the funeral. She hasn’t been in touch.”

She strode over to the front door and threw it open. “ _That_ _bitch_ never loved my son. We’re done talking to you, Mr. Snyder. We don’t need your money to honor Lance’s memory. Get out.”

Luke hesitated for a moment, bewildered at the woman’s anger, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He picked up his coffee and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” he said. “I won’t bother you again.”

The door slammed shut in his wake.

Twenty paces down the street, Luke paused to collect his thoughts. Okay, Gretchen. Amanda. Whoever. Clearly the woman had a lot of secrets, and had been leading at least a double life. But he hadn’t learned much to explain what she’d been doing posing as a nurse in Oakdale, or why she was estranged from her fiancé’s parents.

“Luke!” he heard a shout from the direction he’d come. He turned around. Joe Taylor was striding towards him.

“I’m sorry about Linda,” he said once he reached him. “She took Amanda’s departure very badly. I think she blames her for Lance’s death – it’s easier for her to blame someone, than to accept that he was lost to random violence.” Luke nodded. That made sense.

Joe continued, “To be honest, I’m worried about Amanda. I think Lance’s loss destroyed her. She didn’t have much of a support structure – she never talked about her family; Lance told us she was fully cut off from them. She abandoned her studies, her research… I don’t know where she went, but wherever she is, I do hope she’s okay.”

Luke hesitated, thinking of the sad, scared woman back at Oakdale Memorial. He heard Reid’s voice – “ _She leaks, the tears!”_ and made a decision.

“Joe, I think I might have met Amanda at the hospital in my hometown. She was going by the name Gretchen – Gretchen Taylor, I would assume in honor of you son. Do you know if she had any connections to Illinois?

Joe frowned at this, brow pinched. “Illinois? I don’t think so. Lance told me she grew up in Texas. Dallas, I think. But I really don’t know anything more about her past.”

“That’s quite alright. Thank you again for your time, and I’m very sorry to have brought up old wounds.”

Joe shook his hand. “If you do see this Gretchen back at home – please tell her we’d like to hear from her.”

“I will,” Luke told him, deciding it wasn’t worth it to explain. He waved in farewell as he headed back down the street.

 _Dallas_. Another clue – and another connection, another reminder of Reid.

*

Jason tried the Taylors twice more before an annoyed female voice picked up. “Yes?”

“Hello, Ms. Taylor? My name is Jason. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your son and his fiancé, Amand-”

He was cut off. “You have some nerve, trying to call back like this. Do not call us again. Do not try to contact us. I don’t ever want to hear that name again.”

The phone slammed back down onto the receiver. Jason sat frozen, staring at the ended call on his screen. He let out a breath slowly. The woman’s cold anger had been crystal clear, even over the phone. There was no use in trying again. It was a dead end.

He slumped down in his chair, deflated. More internet research hadn’t yielded much information on Amanda Jensen – some accounts of her research with Dr. Garcia, and very little else. After a galvanizing 24 hours, he now felt aimless, with nothing left to go on.

Stillman had been shocked, intrigued, and enthusiastic about all that Jason had learned so far on his trip, but had also been realistic about the likelihood of him tracking down information on a dead woman who’d been living some kind of double life. He’d also been sobered by the revelation that Jason’s amnesia was likely drug-induced. Given that mechanism and Garcia’s information, it was unlikely that staying in Boston longer would be helpful. Jason could very well wander around the neighborhood he’d grown up in, and still not be able to break through the block that prevented him from accessing his personal memories.

He headed back down to the hotel’s computer lounge, and booked himself a return flight to London for the following evening. As he considered what he could do with the intervening time, something occurred to him – not a recollection, exactly, but a casual certainty: were he to go to Harvard Square, he would find people playing chess there.

It wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the afternoon. He grabbed his jacket, and headed to the nearest T station.

*

Luke strolled slowly from the Taylor’s residential street back to the bustle of Cambridge. His path took him along the Charles - it was late morning on a Saturday, and the college rowing teams were out in force, their eight-oared shells gliding powerfully over the water. He sat down on a bench to watch the activity on the river.

A women’s crew rowed by. From the shore, the boat looked almost peaceful, but if he looked more closely he could see the sweat on the athletes’ skin and the effort in their faces.

He wondered about Amanda Jensen. Estranged from her family, studying for her doctorate in biochemistry. Engaged, only to suddenly and horribly lose her fiancé. Somehow ending up in Oakdale with a fake name and a fake story, only to disappear again after a suspicious hit-and-run. There was certainly evidence to indicate that she was a criminal – but he couldn’t help but think that maybe this woman had been trying to make a new life for herself, fleeing the demons from her past.

He called his Grimaldi contact again, and filled him in on scant new information he’d learned. His contact seemed confident he could dig up more, particularly with the Dallas tip. Luke thanked him and hung up, gazing out at the river once again. But his mind was far from the single scullers now passing by. It was drifting back to an April now long gone, to a kiss that had left him confused and conflicted and exhilarated all at once, and to a man that had left him with so much still to learn.

Dallas, Boston – both of Reid’s cities, before the universe had conspired to bring him into Luke’s life in Oakdale.

Luke left his bench and started walking again, heading along the river back towards the T station in Harvard Square. He smiled as he remembered Reid telling him of how he’d learned to play chess there, from seventy-year-old Ukrainian men after school.

Sure enough, the plaza was dotted with stone tables, each with a built-in chessboard atop its surface. Many of the tables were occupied by players, with plenty of observers crowded around to watch. Luke lingered for a little while, imagining a young Reid honing his skills here in the afternoons. He wondered if any of the men here had been around long enough to remember the undoubtedly precocious young redhead.

Eventually, a glance at his watch told him it was time to move on – he had another meeting on Foundation business that afternoon, before his flight back to Oakdale. He joined the crush of people descending the stairs back onto the subway platform, and was halfway down when a glimpse of a face on riding up the escalator to his left made him halt in his tracks.

A man slammed into his back, swearing at him, but he hardly noticed. _Reid?_ Bewildered, he tried to stare after the figure, but all he could see were the backs of heads. Whoever he’d seen was long gone, carried up towards exit.

Shaken, he continued down the stairs. _What the hell?_ He could have sworn he’d seen a man with Reid’s face, but only for a split second. As he waited on the train platform, he ached at the trick his imagination had played on him. He’d been thinking of Reid nonstop since he’d been here; it wasn’t terribly surprising that his subconscious would have projected his lover’s face onto someone who bore him a vague resemblance. But it was a cruel illusion, and he didn’t want to spend all his time dwelling on ghosts.

He thumbed to one of the few photos he had of Reid on his phone - the headshot they’d used on the brochures for the neuro wing. He took solace for a moment in the real thing, then slipped his phone back into his pocket, turning his thoughts back towards his upcoming meeting.

*

Jason hated riding public transportation as much as he’d disliked the plane, and was eager to emerge into the fresh air as he rode the escalator up out of the Harvard T station. Hands in his pockets, he gazed absently at the people hurrying down the staircase to his left, until one suddenly caught his attention.

Golden hair atop an angelic face – why did the man seem so familiar? He craned his neck to look back down the stairs, but the escalator had nearly reached the top, and it was too difficult to see. He held the glimpse he’d gotten in his mind: there was faint recognition, like a barely remembered dream- _Oh._ His dream. The man had resembled the blond man he’d dreamt about the night before he’d left London.

He half-wanted to go after the man, to see if he could find him on the platform, but he shook his head at the foolishness of it. What would he say? “Hi, I think I’ve seen you in my dreams. Any chance you know who I am?” It would sound like a pickup line from a crazy person. He continued on towards the plaza instead.

Harvard Square was familiar the same way Piccadilly had been – instantly recognizable, but with no personal memory attached to the recognition. He couldn’t be certain that he’d ever been there, but it seemed likely – especially when the chess tables were precisely where he’d expected them to be.

He only had to wait for a few minutes for a spot to open up. The older man sitting at the table had quickly defeated his opponent, and smiled beckoningly when he saw Jason watching.

They exchanged few words – just enough to establish how much time to allow on the clock, and that they wouldn’t be playing for money – then began.

Jason settled easily into the familiar rhythm, mapping out possibilities as he observed the board and the moves his partner was making. He was a jovial player, with an impressive walrus mustache that tickled his upper lip when he laughed at particularly daring moves from Jason. Both players were having fun with the game, and they soon drew a small spectator crowd. Murmurs from the watchers told Jason that his opponent rarely took this long to defeat an unknown.

At last, they were both down to a few remaining pieces, and Jason saw an opening. He positioned his knight, then, “Checkmate.”

The crowd gasped and clapped, and Jason’s partner extended a hand with a roar of delighted laughter. “I am Vlad,” he said as they shook.

“Jason.”

“Jason, you are a very good player. I have not played someone with your style in many years. It reminds me of a little boy who used to play here when I was a younger man.” He eyed Jason appraisingly. “You look a little like him too. It is your hair, perhaps.”

Jason gulped. “Do you remember his name?”

Vlad’s mustache quivered as he frowned in thought. “It was not Jason. Hey, Peter,” he called to the man at the next table over. “Do you remember the name of the red-haired boy who used to play here with us? Ivan’s protégé?”

Peter shrugged. “Ryan, maybe? No, that’s not it.”

Vlad turned back to him apologetically. “Ivan would remember, but he died a few years back. It was a pleasure to play with you, Jason. Do come again – next time I will be ready.”

Jason promised to return the following morning, then left to wander around the Cambridge streets. Could he have been the boy the chess players remembered? Had he spent his childhood here? It seemed possible, but it was frustratingly difficult to put the pieces together.

He found directions for the Cambridge Public Library, and strolled through Harvard’s campus to reach it. Now that there was a hint that he may in fact have grown up in this area, perhaps he might have some luck searching through local newspapers.

The library staff were happy to help him access the online archive, and he quickly searched for the terms “chess” plus “Harvard Square.” Hundreds of results turned up. He narrowed the search to an appropriate range of years, then filtered for photo captions.

The desktop was slow, but he methodically clicked through the photos. Most were of no interest, and by the time his hour of computer use was almost up, he was ready to write off the whole diversion as a waste of time. He glanced through the last few, then a caption caught his attention – “Training the next generation: whiz kid impresses the chess masters of Harvard Square.”

The photo showed an unsmiling kid seated at a chess table opposite a man identified as Ivan Pavlenko. It wasn’t easy to make out facial details in the scan, but there was enough of a resemblance that Jason thought it possible that he was looking at a photo of his younger self. Heart racing, he opened the associated article.

It was mostly about Ivan, profiling his longstanding reign as the best chess player in the Square. There was only a paragraph towards the end detailing his mentorship of young players, and no name was given for the boy in the photograph.

Frustration flooded Jason for what felt like the hundredth time. He printed the photo, then spent the last few minutes of his allotted time searching the internet for youth chess competition results from that era. There were lots of names, none of them familiar. He gave up.

As he made his way back to his hotel, he halfheartedly considered making posters of his face to put up around the city. _Do you know this man?_ But it seemed as futile an idea as this whole trip had been. He’d pieced together seven months of his previous life – nearly double what his conscious memory contained – but that was all. He would return to London tomorrow, knowing barely more about himself than when he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long delay, and I hope you enjoy the update! If you're reading, I'd love to hear from you. Lots of love!


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